


Means To An End

by Hexametaphosphate



Series: Shingeki no Anthology [5]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexametaphosphate/pseuds/Hexametaphosphate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In philosophy, the term 'means to an end' refers to any action (the means) carried out for the sole purpose of achieving something else (an end)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Means To An End

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't necessarily related to Study Break, but takes place within the same AU. I listened to the Joy Division station on Pandora while writing this; it's not necessary to listen to it yourself, but I think it helps paint the picture I'm trying to create.

High school was over. Somehow I managed to get through it with minimal incidents, most of them on the basketball court. At least, until an injury put me out, and at the request of my doctor, effectively ended my basketball career. The whole thing was behind me though and I'd made peace with it. All my worries dealt with the future of my academic career and romantic pursuits; I'd already received the acceptance letter I'd been looking forward to getting a couple months ago, but that's where my success ended.

I'm not a violent person by nature, but when a certain snot-nosed brat decided to intervene for no good reason, I had a change of heart. And when he showed up at Reiner's graduation party it was all I could do to walk out and not cause a scene. Sasha, attentive as ever, noticed and followed me, attempting to talk me through it but to no avail. Her words just made me angrier.

"Come on, Jean, _lighten_ up," Sasha croons, her fingers curling at my shoulder, shaking me gently as if it would get me out of my funk.

"Fuck off." I let out a sigh and worm myself out of her grip, rubbing at the side of my neck. "I mean, don't worry about me," I mutter, glowering at no one in particular. "Just go back to the party. I'll be alright."

She lingers, a worried look clear on her features, before giving my shoulder a final squeeze, quietly turning back towards the house. I watch, feeling guilty about the way I'd snapped at her initially. It wasn't her fault and in all honesty I feel like it wasn't big enough of a deal to lose my shit over so completely, but Eren Jaeger pisses me off to no end. Just the thought of him and his stupid bragging mouth made white hot anger flash through me, sear into the base of my skull almost painfully. I let out a frustrated growl when another person joins me on the deck, praying to whatever gods existed that it would not be Eren. I couldn't be mentally responsible for what my fists might physically do to his face.

The flash of music as the sliding door opened, then _swish_ ed shut, gave him away, followed by the soft thud of footsteps, and I recognized it. The footfall I'd heard for years and had grown oddly used to; something about them was different compared to anyone else. There's really no way to explain it. More importantly, they were not Eren.

"Hey," he says simply, sitting on the step above the one I'd taken for myself. His long legs stretch out towards the last step, the heels of his basketball shoes pressing against the soft dirt of the backyard. I watch as he places his palms at his knees, peeking out of the hems of his shorts.

"Eren is a pig."

It's the first thing that comes to mind. It's one of the only things I've been wanting to say, all fucking night, but I'd been on my best behavior and bit my tongue. Until then. I felt unbelievably enraged but I kept my cool until the kid showed up at the party. Even then, my control was rigid and I simply walked out to let the night air work its magic. But now, with Bertholdt, I couldn't keep it in any longer. I was ready to explode and Bert's silence gave me the space to do so.

I saw him nod in my peripheral, and continued. "I mean, he barely has to fucking try. He had her from day one. But he didn't want her, and as soon as I decide to go for it he just fucking... sweeps in and steals the whole fucking show." I put my face in my hands, groan into them my frustration. "It's such bullshit. That's just so wrong. _Just_ to piss me off?"

Bertholdt shifts beside me, drawing an inch closer and rubbing a palm soothingly at the back of my neck. For a moment my tension slips and I nod into the sensation with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Jean," he says softly, his magic fingers finding knots of stress I didn't even know existed, expertly unwinding them. "I don't agree with what he did either. It's not fair to you, or Mikasa."

"I wish he'd just grow up already."

Bertholdt squeezes at my neck a bit more firmly, the muscles underneath giving way momentarily, pleasantly. It draws a sound from my lips and under the cover of lashes I see him smile. "Stop worrying about him. Let's just leave." He loosens his grip enough to let me turn and face him. The look in his eyes is unreadable, even further discernible in the dim light of a waning moon. "We can go to my place, my parents are out of town and there's plenty of beer."

"Yeah, sure."

He stands before I do, gracefully at the bottom of the steps, and offers me his hands; I grasp them and he pulls me up effortlessly before turning towards the path around the house and through the small gate to the front yard. He leads me to his car mutely, to let me simmer like he always does, instead of prying and asking dumb questions. Sitting in the passenger seat while he drives through the darkened midnight streets, I'm hit with a wave of gratefulness. It gathers at the tip of my tongue but I'm so caught up in the silence that I keep my lips tightly shut. His eyes stay attentive to the road and I watch as the scenery passes by until we pull up to his house.

I commandeer the couch as soon I kick my shoes off, sinking into the comfy tan cushions while Bert passes through to the kitchen, returning with a few beers in tow. "You sure know how to cheer a guy up," I sigh appreciatively, earning a modest smile from him. He pops the beers open, hands me mine, and flips through a few TV channels before settling on an agreeable movie. "Thanks for getting me out of there. I'm sorry you had to leave so early."

He shrugs dismissively, sinking into the couch and letting his legs spread out, the way he did when he wasn't worried about taking up too much space. "No problem, I didn't feel like staying for long anyways." He sighs too, taking a long swig of his beer until I swear at least half of it is gone. I watch the tension pour out of him at the relief of the end of the school year.

Next semester he'll be playing for one of the biggest, strongest universities in the country; I can't possibly fathom the pressure he's under. Most would mistake him for the kind of guy who plays well like it's nothing, but I know better than most. That skill came as a result of long hours practicing under streetlights and rising suns. I watched him play, endlessly, every summer since we'd met.

I catch him by surprise when I get up and circle the couch to stand behind him, sliding my hands around his neck. "I know I'm not as good as you but I figure I'd return the favor." When he stares up at me with that unreadable look again it makes me blush, and I look away to hide it, hoping the pressure of my fingers working at his neck are enough to not only undo the tension built up there but distract him. I can't tell for sure when I look again because his eyes are shut. As a result, I still can't decide what that look in his eyes is.

"Hey, Jean," he mumbles, leaning into my touch; I feel a warm sense of pride at my massage skills. "Remember that week before we started high school?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Remember the pact we made, when Reiner and Annie fell asleep, and we were still awake watching Across the Universe?"

I give Bertholdt a weary look, momentarily forgetting to work my hands. "Uh, pact?"

"Yeah, the pact."

As soon as I open my mouth to deny it, it hits me. _The_ pact. That stupid pact we made when we couldn't wait to grow up and be full-blown adults. "Oh, jeez, Bert," I say with a breathy laugh. "I mostly just said it to make you squirm. It was fucking priceless."

"But after that. I agreed, we promised." I look away, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "Maybe you were half asleep when you brought it up again, but doesn't that mean something too?"

When the heat lessens I face him once more. He's still got that look in his eyes, but now it's accompanied by that rare, mischievous smile of his. I don't even realize I've bitten my lower lip until the skin starts to give way. " _Shit_ ," I hiss under my breath, and he catches it. "You're not even a virgin anyways. You're the basketball star, you got all the ladies, even some of the boys."

"You're still a virgin."

The redness returns with a vengeance and I take my hands away from his neck. "Fuck off, I'm not giving you a massage anymore," I mumble, making my way around the couch and being sure to sit on the end farthest from Bert. He laughs at this and I cross my arms, trying to seem more put out than I really was.

"If you don't want to, that's fine. I won't be offended."

He lets the subject drop and just as easily slips back into the comfortable mood that had begun to settle over us when we'd gotten in the car. I let the silence layer over that comfort for a little while, interrupted only by the lull of the television and the slosh of our beers. A full minute or two passes before I look over at Bertholdt again, and when I do all these thoughts spill in my mind. I do remember the pact. I remember that whole night, because it was the first night that we truly became best friends. I remember the kind of pizza we ordered, the colors Annie painted our nails, all three movies we watched, the fact that Bertholdt was wearing a Joy Division shirt, and how I ended up keeping it after that night.

Come to think of it, I'm wearing it now.

I sigh and turn away when Bertholdt notices, fingers playing at the hem of my cherished shirt. "I remember all of that, even when I brought it up again. It seemed so surreal that I figured it was a dream." I smile then, picturing the scene as I curl up against the arm rest of the couch. "A vivid dream, where I could feel it when you wrapped your arm around me and pulled me in, a warmth too strong to forget. I guess now it makes sense why I've never had a dream like that again. It wasn't a dream at all."

Somewhere in the depths of my mind a voice screeches at me for putting my feelings on display. Feelings I wasn't even sure I had until that voice started making a ruckus moments ago. The self-consciousness sets in and I make myself even smaller in the corner of the couch.

Bertholdt moves in that wordless way he prefers, lanky, powerful arms encircling me and drawing me into his form until we're laid out across the couch. His arms are wrapped securely around my waist, his chest pressed into my back, his breath falling against my hair. "No, it wasn't."

Those three words linger in what little air separates us, spill in the space surrounding. They press into my sides and drive home the fact that somewhere, deep inside, Bertholdt wasn't just a friend to me. He was more than the best friend I could possibly have. I thought about Marco then, how he was quickly becoming a bigger part of my life, how I grew fonder of him every time we hung out, and how I could sense our impending closeness and how he'd eventually warm his way into my heart for good. But Bertholdt already had a special place in my heart. Said place in my heart demanded to be noticed.

I shift to turn around and face Bert. His eyes were shut, but they open now. I'm beginning to understand what his eyes are expressing and it distracts me from my own actions. By the time I've caught myself my hands are cupped around his cheeks and pulling him close. I hesitate in that final moment before our lips touch; his hands raise to cup mine and reassure them as he closes that last bit of distance, stealing my breath much like the way he so effortlessly steals the ball on court.

He's always been better than me. Raw talent lies inside of him, and each time he pressured himself to improve, he did because of its existence. I've never seen another person work the court the way he does. His feet move differently, his legs swing differently, his arms hook differently. Everything about him is so different that it looks like he's playing a completely different game, all by himself. It makes the other nine guys on the court seem inconsequential, unnecessary. I always watched, stunned. Whenever we played together at the park I always lagged behind, and he never played at his full potential with me despite how much I asked him to. I'd had plenty of dreams about his footwork and his precision with handling that ball, thinking his efficiency and skill might translate to other activities. Now, with his tongue half way down my throat, I can confirm it.

"Is this a yes?" he asks when we both surface for air. His usual control has slipped, his voice a little uneven, his face more relaxed than I'd ever seen before. Those grey eyes peer from a calm ocean I have an urge to dive into. I wonder how many others have seen it before.

"Yeah," I finally answer.

The light seems to shift in his eyes and then he presses another kiss to my lips, softer, sweeter. "We can stop whenever you want to, just say the word." I nod my confirmation, and he rises from the couch, crawling over me. Before I know it I'm wrapped up in his arms bridal style.

"Jesus, Bert," I breathe in the midst of a laugh. Despite this I tighten my arms around his neck, draw myself closer. There's a hint of a smirk on his lips and I think of how delicious it looks in that moment. He lets out a sound, a pale reflection of a grunt, as I kiss that smirk, humoring me as he lets my tongue press forward and explore, and by the time we crash into the comfort of his mattress we're kissing as hungrily as we did on the couch.

The way he takes command in the situation is just as stunning as it is on court; all my worries of being utterly inexperienced are half-thought and so distant from me because it doesn't matter when he's making all the moves. He comes back for more after surfacing for another breath and I take it as an acknowledgement of my beginner's luck. The burst of confidence makes my hands as brazen as his, but not before he's taken my shirt and flung it across the room. When he pulls back to remove his own I'm caught hopelessly in those slate eyes. I can almost see the calculation in them, like sex is a game he's mastered, too, but there's more to it and as I realize it a heat washes over me.

"Jean," he whispers. My eyes fly open, though I can't seem to figure out how long I'd shut them, and he's right there, hovering over me with his palm at my cheek and body crouched over mine. His thumb rubs soothingly where it rests, easing me further into his control. "Have you done anything at all?"

The question makes me blush and I try to look away, burying half my face into his palm. "N-no, not really, I just... you know, by myself," I mumble, the warmth in my face rising at a dangerous rate. I wait, but he doesn't tease me.

Bertholdt simply looks up at me, calculating his next string of words while his lips carve their presence into my flesh, down and across my torso, the graze of teeth every now and again sending my own down into my lip. "What do you do?" he prompts me, still so fucking composed despite being face to face with my belly button. He licks and nips along my waist and the excited yelp that escapes me is surprising.

"Ah, _fuck_ ," I moan, never having realized how good a tongue tracing the outline of my hip bones and the V formed between them might feel. "Just jerked off, whatever," I answer, ignoring the threat of a new heat at admitting my own inexperience, even by my own hands.

My answer is another generous helping of silence, only broken by the sounds Bert draws from my lips. His were more concerned with causing them, rather than forming sounds of their own. They cover my stomach in a flurry of kisses while his fingers tug off what remains of my clothes. He takes my dick in his hand, and that first flick of his tongue makes me exhale in a sharp manner, drop my head against the mattress. I was already halfway to hard but just that one, tentative lick is enough of a promise to make me stand at attention. " _Fuck_."

I hadn't really imagined what Bertholdt might be like sexually. A dream here and there became suggestive of his abilities, but I always chalked it up to being a horny teenage boy. Maybe it had something to do with his ability to score on and off the court, maybe they were taunts from that part deep inside of me that lacked self-esteem, but I rejected that immediately. I felt nothing but respect and admiration for Bertholdt, maybe a little envy but nothing to truly make me jealous. Now, underneath his attentions, I find a reason that clicks into place smoothly, something simple that might not have seemed so simple a year ago.

His mouth glides over me and elicits a soft groan from my own, pulling me out of my brooding mind. Instantly, my head swims, and for a few endless moments I can't put together a proper thought. Even with my eyelids closed Bertholdt is there; his eyes are still peering up at me from my waist, and I encircled by those lips. I prop myself in a nearly frantic manner, eyes fluttering open to make sure that this was really happening, and I don't think I've ever been more relieved to find that the answer was: yes, indeed, this is really happening.

"Shit..."

I slip back into the bed and slide fingers through his hair, just barely long enough for me to grasp. The hand that had wrapped around most of my length unwound and he slid further down around me, until he had me completely surrounded by his wet cavern. Words fail me in my attempt to describe the new sensation I'd only ever imagined before, but somehow they form coherently enough to insult me for never having tried harder to know. Something about the way he sucks me in changes and a warm, helpless feeling fills me.

I try to word my undoing but I refuse to acknowledge the stupid syllables without forms coming out instead.

I lay still, in a mixed state of shame and euphoria, waiting for Bertholdt to pull away and make some sort of comment. It shouldn't surprise me when he doesn't speak, but it does anyways. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come so fast," I mumble, curling onto my side when he gets off the bed.

He denies me the presence of his voice still, but laughs then. He descends once more to join on me on the bed and presses a kiss at the side of my hip. "It's okay, if anything I'm flattered." The words he chooses to speak ignite another heat in my face. The trail of kisses up my side and against my shoulder soothe it. "Do you want me to stop yet?"

"No." I say it before thinking what such a response meant in such a situation. "No," I repeat less urgently, more thoughtfully. He hovers over my shoulder, hand moving to rest its palm there. He places his chin on top and leans forward, nudging his nose against my jaw. "Let's do it."

"Is this what you what?" He slides a sinewy arm around my middle and draws me in, still on my side, until I can feel his hardness at my hip. I silently curse myself for being so easily flustered by everything he does. I nod without words, afraid I wouldn't be able say them properly, and he moves away again, his weight shifting off the bed.

I roll onto my back, stretch my arms out across the bed and let out a soft breath. I thought of doing this plenty of times, but actually being in the moment was a completely different experience. I never had the balls to go there. Staring up at Bertholdt as he discards his remaining clothes and crawls on top of me afterwards, the reality sets in even harder. As if sensing my uncertainty, he leans in and captures my lips in a kiss so sweet it makes me melt.

"I'll be gentle," he says.

I believe him fullheartedly and try to let go of some of the nerves that had built up. His lips assault me again and they drink my whine when his lube-slicked fingers press into me. He kisses me harder then, insists on more of my attention until the sensation is distant, and then suddenly they're sliding inside of me, bidding my attention be returned. He doesn't let me go, continues to aggressively demand my tongue's participation, until I'm writhing into the thrust of his fingers.

When he finally pulls back I gasp for a breath, exhaling it in a heartfelt, " _Fuck_." His fingers reach further than I expect, twist in a way that promises great things are to come. I dare to look at him once more and when I do it steals the air from my lungs; this is the boy I saw on the court all summer, this is the best friend that held me when I cried and got kicked off varsity, this is the boy I'm going to lose my virginity to.

Cinereal eyes flicker in the darkness of the room. Somewhere, his radio is humming a tune distinctly Interpol, oddly fitting the way his gaze bares down on me. I know exactly what it says now: affection, desire, mutual respect. There's a kind of love in there, something precious and sweeter even than a lover's kind of love. A sudden calm washes over me and those hues change before me as it does; his fingers withdraw and I'm barely left with enough time to whine a complaint of his absence.

"Fu— _fuck_ ," I groan, wordless syllables clamoring out into the air afterwards. It's bigger than his fingers, uncomfortable, maybe even a little disappointing. It all changes when he moves to thrust, and that uncomfortable feeling recedes so quickly I feel like I've imagined it. He hovers above me, his concern for me clear as day and radiating from his whole presence, though he doesn't stop. His name slips from my lips then, as involuntary as can be, and I relax into the sheets, surrendering to a sweet kind of helplessness.

Bertholdt picks up the pace and gives me a real reason to moan.

At some point he fell forward, pressed his face into the crook of my neck. At some point, I hooked my legs around his waist like my life depended on it, slid my arms around his neck until both of my hands gripped powerful shoulders. I felt the muscles there flex and extend. For a moment I feel bummed that it's too dark to truly appreciate his form. But with my eyes closed I make up for it. Years of watching him run the entire court, shirtless, suddenly become something I'm grateful for. I think about how many times I'd seen him so and how excited it made me to play basketball, but now that excitement translates into something much more obscene; I twitch underneath his body, hit by a nearly painful state of arousal.

"Oh, fuck, Jean." The words fall hot, heavy on my skin. The sound of my name on his lips feels different, enough to make me whimper in response. He says it again, more breathy, and I clutch onto him tighter. Again, breath falling closer to my ear, and I moan. " _Jean, I'm close_."

I pull him in for the kiss this time, quickly devouring his surprisingly soft lips before he has even a shred of a chance to respond. When he kisses back it's clumsy, like an after-thought, but that only makes it more appealing, draws a deeper hunger from me. I pull back to say something encouraging, to urge him to come, but the words catch in my throat. Seeing his face so contorted in the midst of a battle against slipping control makes me lose my train of thought.

Not that I even have to say a word. His mouth parts to let out a soft cry and his head falls back into the crook of my neck again, his now erratic thrusts accompanied by the strange, warm feeling of being filled with his release. I smile, though I can't quite put my finger on the reason why.

We stay there for a few minutes, maybe long enough for a whole song to start and finish.

He rolls onto his side as he pulls out and lets out a soft hum, his eyes staying closed a few moments longer before glancing at me. "You're hard again," he states, almost matter-of-factly.

I laugh at his frankness, and realize that I'm not as easily flustered as I was when we'd started. "Mmh." I feel too good to be flustered. "I am."

Another long moment passes between us, Radiohead soaking up the silence.

He sits up and reaches for his night stand before crawling back on top of me, this time straddling my waist. Something wicked glimmers in his hues, something I'd only seen on rare occasions. When my eyes start to wander away he closes the distance between us and captures my lips, giving me no room to protest. Not that I wanted to, anyways. His distracting lips make it more of a shock when his fingers take my dick in his hold, wet with a copious amount of lube.

It smacks me in the face, then, what Bertholdt was meaning to do. I hadn't even considered the idea, not even in my hormone-fueled teenage dreams. His whole presence screamed dominance to me once I'd seen him handle a basketball. No one topped him there, why would anyone even _dare_ to top him in bed?

"Oh, god," I whisper when he presses down, as a test or maybe a taunt. I can't decide until I look up at him, perched with his knees on either side of me. A wide sliver of streetlight falls through a gap in his curtains and lights up his face, off center, down his torso and scraping over the form of his still hard length, coloring a bit of his thigh before ending. I force my gaze back up and try to decipher him. He tilts his head, extends his neck, and the light accentuates that stretch of skin in a tantalizing manner, as if he knows I'm trying to put my finger on that look of his and wants to thwart me.

The idea that I'm over-thinking it crosses my mind just before he takes away my ability to think at all. He keeps me steady until he has to pull his hand away, until I'm wholly inside of him. My hands find his thighs, nails digging into his flesh at the hot feeling his walls around me. I choke up a word that ends up being nothing more than a simple groan.

I hear that satisfied breath fall from his lips. That sound that he makes when he scores a three-pointer, that sound he makes when he gets home from school, that sound he makes when he makes me smile.

He moves when he's ready, and I don't waste another moment on shut eyes when he does. It's a million times better than watching him do anything else. Stark naked, he rolls his hips, rises and falls in a manner that captures my attention effortlessly. It's an impossibly graceful movement, but it suits him. In the dim light I can barely make out the contours of his muscles, the way they tense and relax under his flesh, and fuck does it turn me on. " _Jesus_ , Bert, just... _ah_ , fuck," I choke.

His breath is coming faster, but not nearly as fast as mine. He meets my gaze and holds it calmly, though his hues are a mix of euphoric feelings that speak anything but calm. Something frantic lurks under their surface and the urge to draw it above makes my hips thrust upwards. He lets out a soft cry when I do and I take it as encouragement, moving my hands to grasp his hips securely and pitch into him with increasing need. Bertholdt bucks in time with me, his graceful rolls a thing of the past. His movements are motivated by the same desperation as mine are now, his eyes falling shut in the chaos. Mine stay open only to watch his composure disappear with every moan he makes. I've never wanted to hear his voice so badly as I do now.

I watch as his lengthy fingers form a fist around his cock and begin to pump in time, and fuck does it embolden me. He lets out appreciative cries as I do my best to quicken his demise. I forget my own mounting pleasure until it starts to shake through my limbs. I lean up then, held up by one arm, the other snaking its way around Bertholdt's waist and pulling him closer. It causes his eyes to flutter open and meet mine in a sort of distant way. "Are you close?" I breathe, and he nods a few moments later, as if the words take a minute to process before he knows what I'm saying.

A shiver slides through me and I feel just how badly I want to make him come in its wake. His head lulls back and I disagree with it vehemently. "No, look at me." I surprise both of us with how commanding it sounds; he looks at me again, lust-hazed hues in the kind of turmoil that only pleasure can cause. He whimpers, a sound so delightfully submissive that it makes me weak with the desire to make him do it again.

" _Fucking come_ ," I hiss, my wits quickly drawing to a conclusive end. I feel his body tense around me when his body does exactly as I ask of it, a stream of pearly white splattering its way up our chests. The warm sensation lets what little control I had over my own state loose and then I'm coming with him. His groan melts into mine and it's beyond me to try and figure out which one is which.

The next few minutes are spent sprawled out on his bed, heavy breaths disrupting the sounds of Joy Division. I struggle to find words that accurately describe how I feel, to somehow convey to Bertholdt what realization has dawned on me. As I do so the knowledge that the realization is both meaningful and meaningless all at once hits me, full force. When I turn my head to look over at him, still content to face the ceiling with eyes shut, I know my feelings haven't changed or grown any more than they already had. This is the pinnacle of our relationship. This won't lead us down a road to romance. Sometimes you just want to make your friends feel good, no matter what it means.

Bertholdt did just that. I couldn't muster any negative feeling in this moment in time.

"Hey, Jean," he says, interrupting my thoughts. I turn onto my side, find a pillow and cradle it beneath my head. "Have you decided where you're going yet? For college, I mean."

The topic catches me off guard. "Once I got accepted to the same place you and Reiner were going I made my decision. Marco's going there too, actually."

Berthold smiles for a quick moment before turning to face me. "I'm glad."

"How else will I get to go to every game without paying an arm and a leg?"

He moves then, encircling me in his arms until he's cradled me against his chest. I nestle there, resigning to my comfortable fate. "Guess that's true," he replies, exhaustion apparent in his tone. I wait for him to add to it until I hear a soft snore.

I do my best to keep myself from laughing and curl my fingers around one of the discarded covers, pulling it over us for some shred of decency; sleep calls my name sweetly, and I'm helpless to answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's play the game of Guess What Anime Hex Is Really Excited To Watch In October.
> 
> I needed something really fun to write because I wasn't feeling too hot about chapter two for The Order Of Things. Wanted to write for a pairing that I hadn't really considered much, and then this thing just... happened. Welp. And, thanks to this piece, I know am in love with a handful of older bands. Frick me why didn't anyone tell me how good these guys were? But yeah wow anyways, kinda really dig the whole Jean and Bert being friends who sometimes fuck each other because they just like making each other feel good. I thought about a conversation that would address the title and how it ties in but I'm hoping it just makes enough sense for you guys to get it because the way I see it, neither of them feel the need to verbalize it. They both know, so they continue on as if nothing's changed. Because that's really how it is. 
> 
> ALRIGHT NO EXCUSES WRITE CHAPTER TWO HEX.


End file.
